


Twenty-four Reasons to Remember

by Omi_Ohmy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Advent Calendar, Established Relationship, M/M, Memories, Pensieves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-20
Updated: 2014-02-20
Packaged: 2018-01-13 05:07:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1213852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Omi_Ohmy/pseuds/Omi_Ohmy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry has almost forgotten what it is to be happy in love and life, until Draco gives him twenty-four chances to remember.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twenty-four Reasons to Remember

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in December 2013 as an advent fic. I wanted to write something non-fluffy and a little angsty (although ultimately sweet/happy) as that was more how I was feeling Christmas. The idea had been forming for over a year, so it was good to finally sit down and write. I have no idea how, but my late-night scribblings resulted in a 17k fic. 
> 
> Many thanks to **ICMezzo** and **evilgiraff** for giving this a quick beta once I'd finished posting. Any mistakes remaining are all my own. I was very rushed leading up to Christmas - sorry it's taken me a while to tidy this up enough to repost here. I hope you enjoy it, unseasonal though it may be. :)
> 
> Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.

## Twenty-four Reasons to Remember

### (A Non-fluffy Advent Fic)

 

**1.**

Draco was hovering, standing behind Harry’s chair, and Harry had to resist the urge to bat him away. He closed his eyes and counted to ten, hoping that he could calm down a little before saying something he would regret later. When he glanced over at Draco, his heart clenched at the way Draco was biting the corner of his lip, waiting, and looking utterly vulnerable.

“Okay, I’ve finished now,” Harry said, pushing away the Auror report he had been working on. It wasn’t ideal, bringing work home, but there were never enough hours in the day. “What do you want to show me?”

“Come and sit with me,” said Draco, pulling Harry towards the sofa. “Come on.”

Harry let himself be pulled. He felt guilt, a rolling sickness deep in his gut, at how quiet Draco was being. There had been a time when they would both get home from work in the evenings, and talk or fuck or fight for hours – sometimes all three – until they fell into an exhausted tangle of limbs and drifted off to sleep clutching onto each other. Now he would work late, or Draco would be on a late shift at St Mungo’s, and they barely saw each other, let alone spoke.

They sat by side, silent and awkward. Harry’s mind strayed back to the cursed Muggle toasters that had recently flooded the wizarding world. He had seen one bite an Auror’s hand off that morning, and it was still painfully fresh in his mind. He had spent the day interviewing a variety of irritated witches and wizards, and it had been—

“Harry.” Draco sounded like it wasn’t the first time he’d said his name, and when Harry looked up and caught his eye, the look of disappointment was enough to make him turn away. “I just– I want to–“

 _Fuck it,_ thought Harry, _he wants to talk._ But Draco stopped, and didn’t say anything more. The silence built, a familiar pressure all around them. Harry knew that they should talk, but he didn’t want to: he was terrified that if they did, it would turn into The Talk, and he couldn’t bear the idea of that. He slid a hand towards Draco, and found his fingers. After a heartbeat, Draco squeezed back. His skin was cold, and a little clammy. Harry didn’t need to be an Auror to know that this was a bad sign, and his heart began to beat a little faster, a tight ache in his chest. He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry.

“I want to show you something,” said Draco, his voice sounding over-loud as it broke the silence of the room. “I know that things have been—“ He broke off, and rubbed at his eyes. “Merlin, things have been fucking awful. We never see each other anymore. And when we do—“

“We’realways so tired.” Harry’s weariness seeped into his words, but they had sprung from somewhere deep inside of him. It was the one truth of his life. He was tired, all the time. “It… it shouldn’t be like this.” He ran his thumb along the back of Draco’s hand, trying to let him know what he meant. His words were just so inadequate at saying what he wanted – no, needed – to say to Draco. So he usually chose to say nothing at all, rather than mess it up.

“No, no, it shouldn’t,” said Draco. “When was the last time I saw you smile?” Harry felt his level of panic rise. It sounded like there would be a ‘goodbye’ in this conversation. Damned, stupid, useless words. He wanted to make Draco happy, but it was too late. Torn between love and regret, Harry offered him a sad, half-hearted attempt at a smile, which Draco returned, then shook his head.

If they couldn’t smile or laugh anymore, it didn’t matter how much he ached to touch Draco or how right it felt to sleep beside him at night: maybe they had been right, all those naysayers who had told him it would never work, that this was a relationship doomed to failure. But deep down, no matter how touched by bitterness, Harry couldn’t believe it. What did they know about him, or Draco? His eyes never leaving Draco’s face, Harry hated how lost Draco looked. He missed the biting laugh of old, the whispered “Fuck” and “Get a move on, Potter” as they took and licked and pulled and moved in a glorious, messy, thrilling rhythm.

“When was the last time I heard you laugh?” Harry said, echoing Draco’s words as he reached up to touch Draco’s face. There was a tightness around the eyes that he hated to see there. Draco closed his eyes then turned away, and Harry's hand fell down by his side as he swallowed back the sting of rejection.

“We can sit here being miserable all night, or I can show you this… thing,” said Draco.

Harry raised his eyebrows. “You want to show me your thing?”

“Oh, shut up, you idiot,” said Draco, but a smile pulled at his lips, a real one this time, and Harry relaxed a fraction. “I’m serious. I know that we have been ridiculously busy, so I’ve… actually, I think it would be easier to show you.”

Harry was confused now. This was a strange way to break up with him, and a moment ago he had been sure where this was going. Now, he wasn’t so sure, and hope flared. He looked again at Draco, who was again biting the corner of his lip. What was making him so nervous? Wild thoughts raced through his mind, his secret hopes and wishes given a rare voice. Would it be a letter of resignation? A change in job?

Harry took a deep breath. “What is it?”

Draco summoned a shallow, wide box from the other side of the room. The wood glowed, with the kind of polish Harry normally saw on the furniture in the Manor. Draco handed it to Harry.

“I don’t understand,” said Harry, looking back up at Draco.

“Open it.” Draco pointed at a small brass catch at the front. Harry swallowed again, and popped it open. When he saw what was inside, he nearly dropped the box. There were four rows of six bottles. Tiny little bottles, each one containing a swirling silver mist.

“I don’t understand,” whispered Harry again, looking down at the box of memories Draco had given him. He hadn’t seen a memory stored like this since… his mind returned to the desperate moments in which he’d finally understood the truth about Snape.

“They’re for you. We never have enough time for each other, and I wanted to show you…” Draco broke off and ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t think I can find the words for this. Would you…?”

“We don’t have a Pensieve,” said Harry, knowing that this was an empty protest: if Draco could find twenty-four memories for him to look at, he could manage to locate a Pensieve. Sure enough, Draco flicked his wand again, and a small marble Pensieve drifted through the air and landed on the coffee table in front of them. An elaborate ‘M’ was gilded on the side.

“I borrowed it from the Manor,” said Draco. “Although we can probably keep it; there’s a much bigger one in Father’s study.” Harry clung onto the ‘we’, and tightened his grip on the box.

“I—” Harry didn’t know what to say. He felt a little ambushed.

“Oh, I knew this wasn’t going to work,” said Draco, and he buried his head in his hands. “It’s too much, isn’t it?” The words were muffled, but Harry could still hear the frustration in them. Seeing Draco like this, seeing how much he had invested in this idea, gave rise to a wave of affection. Warm and yet gut-wrenching at the same time. Draco always did get overly caught up in his desire to make dramatic gestures.

“It’s just… twenty-four memories is rather a lot,” Harry said, as gently as he could. “I don’t think I can just sit here and watch them all, especially with you… worrying away next to me.”

Draco looked up. “They’re not all for today. Don’t you know what today is?”

“Sunday?” said Harry, suddenly doubting his ability to remember what day of the week it was.

“Yes, it’s Sunday, but it’s also the first of December.”

Harry looked down at the box again. He couldn’t see what it being a Sunday, or December, had to do with a collection of memories. Wait. Twenty-four…. A memory of Dudley, eating the chocolates out of two calendars, while Harry watched from the hallway, rose in his mind.

“Is it an advent calendar of some kind?”

Draco gave Harry a pointed look, but a brief shadow of relief also passed over his face, and he nodded. Harry bit down the urge to tell Draco that he wasn’t stupid, and looked back and the memories. If Draco had gone to all this trouble, Harry couldn’t see how he could say no, really.

“Okay.” Harry picked up a bottle and rolled it between his thumb and his fingers. The glass was cool, and felt solid, not fragile at all, beneath his fingertips.

“Okay?”

“I can look at one each day.” Harry hesitated for a moment before continuing. “Do you want me to look at one now?”

“Yes.” Draco’s eyes were clear, and added a silent please and thank you. “Start at the top left, then move across each row. Like you’re reading a book.”

“Um. I don’t know if I can, not with you… watching me.” Harry was aware of Draco sitting beside him; he could hear the huff of each breath as Draco looked between the Pensieve, the box of phials, and Harry.

“Fine,” Draco said after a moment. “I’ll go make us a cup of tea. Just– be careful, those are a part of me, okay?”

Harry nodded to show that he understood, and Draco got up with his usual feline quietness, and disappeared in the direction of the kitchen.

Looking back down at the box, Harry blinked, as the grey mists moved in front of him. Gingerly, he unstoppered the first bottle and poured its contents out into the marble bowl of the Pensieve. He took a deep breath, then lowered his face.

He found himself in the Great Hall of Hogwarts, shying away for a second from the din of all the school eating breakfast, mountains of eggs and bacon and toast on each table. The hall looked strange for some reason, and then Harry realised that it was because he was standing next to the Slytherin table. And there was Draco, sitting, quiet and unhappy-looking, amongst the bustle of his friends.

Seeing  Draco as he was in Sixth Year was shocking. There was no doubt about the timing; the drawn look on Draco’s face and dark circles under his eyes would have been confirmation enough, even without Dumbledore, Snape, and Slughorn at the teacher’s table. Harry’s heart ached at the sight of so many who had died in the war scattered around the hall, laughing and grumbling and tucking into their breakfasts. Even Crabbe, loyally flanking Draco, was hard to face; the last Harry had seen of him, he was falling into Fiendfyre in the Room of Requirement.

Harry looked back at Draco; he was so young. His face, no matter how tired and stressed, looked unfinished, still boyish, and his heart ached for the loneliness and desperation he knew Draco had experienced at that time. For someone young, Draco looked wounded, and Harry found his mind wandering to the familiar pale scars across Draco’s chest. He had no idea if this was a memory from before or after, and he had no idea why Draco wanted to show him the scene.

And then it happened, and Harry understood. Draco looked up, over towards the Gryffindor table. Harry didn’t need to follow his gaze to know who he was looking at. Something in Draco’s face changed as he caught sight of Harry. It was… longing. It was only there for an instant, before Draco closed his face down into harsh lines, and turned away. The breath caught in Harry’s throat. He was so used to their intimacy, the intimacy of lovers and friends with many years shared between them, yet here he felt that he was trespassing. This was a different type of intimacy altogether. Before he could say or do anything, the scene faded, and he was once more sitting above the Pensieve.

Draco was standing in the doorway to the room, a guarded expression on his face and a cup of tea in each hand. “You saw it, then?” he asked, his eyes wavering with uncertainty.

Harry nodded, a low arc of his head, his gaze never leaving Draco. “You were so young. We both were.”

“I had hated you so much, and then I realised that there was something else… The night before, I’d had a dream. You had a starring role. For a moment, when I saw you, I wanted something I thought I’d never have.” A wry little smile turned up one side of Draco’s mouth. “I really never thought it would happen. To be honest, I didn’t know if I’d make it to my next birthday: I certainly didn’t– couldn’t think about an after to it all.” Draco crossed the room and put the tea down beside the Pensieve, a jarring note of domesticity beside the grandiose Malfoy gilt-work.

“A dream?” asked Harry, realisation dawning. “ _The_ dream?”

Draco looked suddenly shy, and nodded. Harry turned this over in his mind; the dream was part of their story together, the moment it had all changed for Draco.

“I didn’t see….” At school, Harry had never seen anything other than Draco being up to something.

“I know,” said Draco. “You were too busy being the hero and dreaming of your ginger girlfriend—”

“Hey!” said Harry, taken aback by Draco’s bitterness. In the early days of getting together, Draco’s insecurities about the differences in how they felt about each other had been a real sticking point. No matter how Harry had tried to explain, Draco never seemed able to accept that it didn’t matter when Harry had fallen for him, only that he had, and hard. Harry had thought that these worries were long behind them, but maybe he was wrong.

“Sorry.” Draco curled his fingers over Harry’s for a second, and Harry squeezed back. “I’m just… I can’t do this with words.” He sounded miserable, but Harry still pulled away his hand, unsure about how he felt about everything and needing a moment to try to figure it out.

Harry picked up at his tea, sipping at the too-hot drink to avoid having to speak. He was too tired to think clearly, certainly too tired to deal with the mess of their relationship. But maybe it was time to try.

Before either Harry or Draco could say anything, a silvery cat, the Patronus of Healer Brown, appeared and informed Draco of an emergency at St Mungo’s. Harry was left with half a cup of tea and a box of memories as Draco Flooed away. He finished the tea, and pushed the box away. It could wait for another time. It would have to.

 

**2.**

Standing under a tree, hidden away from the others, Harry watched as his younger self laughed with his friends. They were sitting by the lake at Hogwarts, and the laughter grew louder as Dean pushed Seamus into the cold water. Ron and Hermione sat to one side, Hermione wrapped in Ron’s arms, his head resting against hers. It was the year they had gone back to finish their NEWTs, the year they learned to relax, finally. Beside the tired and older Harry watching from the shadows stood Draco, the expression in his eyes unreadable.

Harry pulled out of the memory, confusion and anger beginning to build. Why was Draco showing him this? He knew that Draco had found it hard after the war. He knew that Draco’s extra year had been lonely, and unhappy. But a lot of people had a tough time after the war. And Harry had needed that laughter, had needed a bit of time before facing the world. He wouldn’t wish it away merely because Draco had been miserable at the time. Harry thought back to his words of the day before. “I didn’t see,” he’d said to Draco, and he hadn’t. He didn’t know what purpose it served to make him see now. Unless it was just to make him squirm.

He stood, and walked away from the Pensieve, frustrated. It had been a long day, and he was too tired to deal with any of this.

Later that night in bed – alone as Draco was on nights – Harry thought back to the memory of Draco standing alone, watching everyone else. Why had he reacted so strongly to it? In the dark of the night, Harry twisted with unease. At the time, he hadn’t really noticed Draco, or thought too deeply on what his life was like. But looking back, he could see exactly how lonely Draco had been. He’d never really had to confront that before. There had been Malfoy-from-school – infuriating and prejudiced – and Malfoy-the-adult who had been many things over the years. Intriguing, sad, funny, and the focus for more love than Harry had ever known before. Somehow Draco had always seemed like two different people, but now Harry realised that wasn't quite true. Harry sighed and tried to get comfortable. The past was so long ago. Why dredge it all up now?

When he saw the Pensieve as he was looking for his shoes the next morning – without Draco around to remind him, Harry had forgotten to put them away – Harry paused, toast in mouth, and glared at it. Guilt almost instantly tugged at him, and he swallowed his toast with difficulty. He put the Pensieve up on the side, out of the way. He wasn’t going to watch any more memories. He didn’t have time for Draco’s self-indulgent trip down memory lane.

Draco came in as Harry was leaving. Draco’s face was wan, his eyes drooping as though ready for sleep. He rubbed his hands through his short hair and nodded at Harry before stumbling past, in search of his bed, presumably.

Harry left, and put all thoughts of memories and Pensieves and Draco out of his mind. He had work to do.

**3, 4, 5, 6.**

“So, how are you?” Hermione was perched on the edge of one the fireside armchairs in her office. Behind her neat stacks of scrolls and parchment towered on her desk, but she had put them all aside when Harry had appeared, hair unkempt and asking to talk.

Hermione leant forward to pour out coffee for the two of them. Harry would rather have had tea, but he didn’t say anything. Coffee at this moment seemed too rich, the scent too deep. He took his mug with a tight smile, and added two sugars from the bowl. Hermione raised her eyebrows, but said nothing.

“Fine. Well, not fine. I don’t know. Tired mainly,” said Harry. “It’s busy at work.” Hermione nodded, and Harry didn’t say that although it was busy, he obviously wasn’t there. He had spent too much time staring into the distance, thinking about that box of memories. Harry drank some coffee, all bitter and sweet. He had snuck away from work to see her so that they could talk in peace and quiet, but now he was here, he didn’t know where to start. “Um, how are you?”

“I’m fine. Curious as to why you’re here.” Hermione sat back in her armchair, and took a sip of coffee.

Harry wrapped his hands around his own almost too-hot cup. He wanted this, he wanted her to push. They both knew that Harry didn’t pop in to see Hermione while she was working. Harry found though, that he couldn’t find the words to explain any of it.

“How’s Draco?”

“Nights. He’s doing nights. I haven’t seen him since Monday.”

She sighed. “I know what that’s like.”

Harry gave her a weak smile, and tried not to think about how he’d given the go ahead for Ron to be on the stakeout team for the Hampshire case over the weekend. He tried to focus. Draco. She wanted to know about Draco. That was, after all, why he had come to see her.

“I… it’s complicated.” Harry took a sip of his coffee. “Do you remember how it was, when the war was over and we could start looking forward again?” Hermione nodded, but didn’t say anything. Harry took a deep breath. “Well Draco seems to want to look back. And I… I don’t know if that’s what I want to do.”

“Are things… okay between you two?” asked Hermione. Harry shivered at her question. He honestly didn’t know what was happening between him and Draco. Setting his coffee aside, Harry pushed his glasses half off so that he could press a hand to his eyes. After a moment, he righted his glasses and looked back at Hermione.

“I don’t know. Maybe not.” He let out a long breath. “He gave me this box of memories, and a bloody gilt-embossed marble monstrosity of a Malfoy Pensieve. I’m supposed to watch a memory a day. It’s some kind of advent.”

“Supposed to?”

“I haven’t looked at it since Monday. I just… I don’t see why either of us should be raking over the past when we’ve got enough to sort out already.”

“I see,” Hermione said. She drank her coffee, her eyes slightly narrowed as she thought. “So he’s extracted… how many memories?”

“Twenty-four. Like a Christmas advent.”

“And borrowed or taken a Pensieve from the Manor?”

“Yes.”

Hermione didn’t say anything, just looked at Harry. He went to drink more of his coffee, but his mug was empty.

“Why would he do all that? What do you think?” Hermione spoke so gently that he knew she wasn’t puzzled; she onlywanted him to think about her questions. It was like watching a dog herd sheep, or a spell being cast, diverting all attention in one direction.

“I don’t know. He… he wants to show me something. Wants me to see something. I don’t know what.” Harry said. “I’m scared about what it might be. What if it’s goodbye?”

“Isn’t this a bit of a long-winded way of doing that, Harry? I think you have to trust him on this.”

“I know.”

“There’s only one way you can find out what he wants you to see, you know that, right? He must have gone to a lot of trouble to organise this. And knowing Draco, he’s put a lot of thought into which memories he’s chosen.”

Harry groaned, and hid his face in his hands. “I have to go home and watch the bloody memories, don’t I?”

“You knew that’s what I’d tell you,” said Hermione. She was right. He hadn’t come here to hide, at all. He’d come here for the kick up the behind he needed to face Draco’s memories. Harry kept quiet as she poured them both more coffee, and smiled as she shook her head as she pushed the sugar bowl in his direction.

.

He pulled his head free from the Pensieve, and closed his eyes. He felt twenty again, and touched his hand to his cheek, in the newly-discovered memory of the first, tentative time he had felt Draco’s fingers, deliberately trailing across his skin. It was overwhelming, watching these memories one after the other. Harry wished that he hadn’t been so stubborn in his refusal to watch before; this would definitely have worked better as one a day. At the same time, it wasn’t a bad feeling, and he sank back into the sofa and closed his eyes.

He remembered well their first chance meeting; Draco’s memories merely added another layer to his own. Borough Market had been busy, with low striped awnings fluttering in the spring breeze. Harry’s bag was already filled with the kind of foods he’d never had as a child: olives and preserves, fiery chillies, and cold-pressed juices. He was tasting cheese at a stall when he was jostled from behind. Turning to apologise, the words had died on his lips as he had realised that it was Draco Malfoy who had bumped into him. The surprise of seeing him in the busy market filled with strangers – in Muggle clothes no less, and with close-cropped hair – had left him blinking and bumbling. Watching in the Pensieve, Harry winced slightly at how clumsily he had spoken to Draco. At the same time he could see too how Draco’s eyes had widened, the slight pinking of his cheeks, and his nervousness around Harry.

He had many other memories of course, of all the times they had visited markets to buy cheese and honey and whatever else they fancied. Except they hadn’t been in a while, had they?

After he’d seen Draco that first time, Harry hadn’t been able to get him out of his head, questions multiplying until it became an itch; Harry would lie awake at night, going through all the possible lives Malfoy could be living. In the end, he had begun to ask around – covertly, he’d thought at the time, but according to Ron apparently not so – and he’d managed to track Malfoy down to an area of Muggle London he’d never seen before.

Harry had visited every pub in the narrow streets of former warehouses down by the river in the hopes of bumping into Draco again, before he found him. The next memory Draco had selected – in the phial marked “4” – was of this ‘chance’ meeting. Watching Draco – no, Malfoy – sitting quietly with his drink, chatting a little to the barman, Harry smiled. Malfoy looked as though he was thinking about all the problems of the world. It was clear to see, now that he knew him so much better, that he had been completely thrown by the sight of Harry, pint in hand and smiling as he approached. Malfoy’s squawked “Bloody hell,” was endearing, and a sign of real shock.

“What are you doing here, Potter?”

“Having a drink,” said Harry, caught between embarrassment at his pursuing Malfoy like this, and the rush of pleasure at having found him.

“Well there’s plenty of space in here, go find someone else to bother.”

“What if I want to bother you?” Harry said, watching as Malfoy’s eyebrows raised at the suggestion. Neither said anything, both taking nervous sips of their drinks instead.

“Well if you’re not going to move, I guess that I better get this out of the way.” Malfoy took a deep drink from his glass before continuing. “Thank you,” said Malfoy, flushing, his pale hair sharply contrasted against his skin. “I mean, for, you know….”

“Yes, well,” said Harry. “You don’t have to say– that is, I know. I mean, after the trials….” He sighed. “Can we just leave it in the past? I’m sick of talking about it all. It’s all anyone ever asks me about.” He looked up, remembering it was Malfoy who had brought it up. “That is, no offence, I mean—”

“For all you’re the darling of the wizar—” Malfoy broke off and glanced around him at the Muggles sitting nearby “—the press, you are still an incoherent mess, aren’t you?”

“I’ve never claimed to be anything else.”

Somehow, and Harry didn’t quite understand how, they were both smiling at each other. Of course, it wasn’t all plain sailing, and Harry winced at how badly he’d messed up asking after Lucius and Narcissa. But yet they still got to the point of promising to owl and meet up again.

Harry had pulled out of this memory and got the next one out straight away. He wanted to remember again: these were memories he didn’t mind reliving.

The river was murky, a rippling brown flow that still managed to make London look wide, open, the buildings and bridges inconsequential beneath the cloudy sky.

They walked. There had been a plan to visit something Muggle, but in the end, they kept on walking, and didn’t stop. Harry drank in the sight of the details he had been too nervous to notice the first time. He saw the way Malfoy swallowed before speaking. He saw the near-touches of their hands, and the way a blush spread across his own cheeks when Malfoy caught him glancing over.

Harry stopped before he reached for the sixth memory. It ached, to relive the past in this way. Everything had been so innocent, so full of hope back then. He sat back and ran his hands through his hair. He felt it again, the thudding in his chest at the sight of Malfoy, the way he’d let himself be pulled along by curiosity and… well, by lust. Only now it was all tangled up by years and arguments and he wasn’t innocent anymore.

And yet… Harry smiled. He wanted to see which memory Draco had picked next.

The restaurant was dimly lit, and the food sparse on the plates. Harry had picked the fanciest place he could think of, but by the end of the meal he was still hungry. When he saw the restaurant swim into focus in the Pensieve, at first Harry thought that Draco had selected a memory from the end of the meal. Malfoy had leant forward and, in a conspiratorial whisper, suggested that they go for fish and chips. It had been the moment when Harry had realised that perhaps there could be more to this than the sparks of desire that had leapt up every time they accidentally touched.

But Draco had selected a memory from the meal itself.

The food on the plates was artfully presented, with fine tendrils of green balancing atop a paper-thin crisp circle, under which soft, perfectly-cooked cubes of sea bass sat. It all looked beautiful, with elegant swirls of a rich sauce travelling from the centre of the plate out. Beautiful, but such a tiny portion.

“A perfect mouthful,” Malfoy said, and both Harrys blushed at his words and the way his mouth had wrapped around them in unmistakeable suggestion.

When Harry had cracked through the top layer and scooped up the fish below, he hesitated before putting it in his mouth. He had thought that with the distraction of Malfoy sitting opposite, his lips pink and his teeth white as he ate through his own fragrant rainbow of salad, the meal itself would be tasteless. It seemed such a waste. But then he brought it to his lips, and Harry watched as his younger face transformed when his mouth exploded in taste. His eyelids lowered, his eyes half-shuttered, while his mouth fell slack before closing and chewing. Harry had only remembered the taste, but now he could see Malfoy, too, leaning forward, appreciating Harry’s moment of… well, he recognised that look. But it was the first time Malfoy had seen it.

A smear of the sauce spilled from Harry’s mouth, glistening in the candlelight. Malfoy wiped it away, while Harry watched his eyes.

Sitting on the sofa, the Pensieve beside him, Harry tried to make sense of all the memories he had seen. He touched his hand to his face again. He’d forgotten this moment, but Draco obviously hadn’t. Malfoy’s hand had trembled as it had touched the edge of his mouth.

For the first time in a long time, Harry wished that Draco wasn’t working nights. He needed to see him. He wanted to remember this with him. Instead, he settled down to watch the memories again.

 

**7.**

When Harry awoke on Saturday morning, he found Draco asleep beside him, his soft and regular breathing filling the room. Draco was warm and Harry felt something loosen deep within, a tension he was never aware of until Draco was home again. Memories and dreams had haunted him gently all night – the brush of fingers over skin, shy smiles; a nameless longing. Harry sat up and watched Draco sleep as he sorted through his sense of then and now. The present felt empty in comparison, but at least Draco was home now, and wasn't on nights again for a while.

Draco looked tired, his skin pale and paper thin, with fine lines fanning out from the side of his eyes. And yet he looked peaceful, as though he would greedily take every moment of sleep he could. Harry didn’t need a Pensieve to remember his shock when he’d first seen Draco sleeping like this. A gentleness softened Draco’s face when he was asleep, and Harry had been able to imagine Narcissa stroking her son’s hair when he was little. Harry had known he liked Draco by then – their night together had confirmed that – but more than hot limbs and fierce kisses, it was the knowledge that this vulnerable side existed that had drawn Harry to Draco. It was the moment that Malfoy had become Draco.

The first week of December had grown steadily colder, and it took some effort to leave the warmth of a bed with Draco in it. When Harry pulled open the curtains in the sitting room, he was greeted by a grey day. The month had yet to turn truly face-achingly cold, but the winds had been terrible and Harry was glad to see a more peaceful day ahead of him. The trees were now entirely stripped and bare, and the pavements had been cleared of leaves by Muggle street cleaners. The whole scene, with the blank skies and streets, felt unfinished somehow.

The room, too, felt empty. Upstairs Draco slept on, and Harry didn’t want to wake him. Draco always needed a long sleep after a run of nights. He would be up later, and they could talk then.

Harry’s eyes strayed to where he’d left the Pensieve by the sofa. He had planned, somewhat vaguely, to wait for Draco before watching the next memory, but now he wasn’t so sure. He closed his eyes; he felt again the trembling touch of fingers on his face. Harry wanted to know what else he had forgotten, and he wanted to see what else Draco had chosen to share with him.

The silver mists of a memory pulled Harry in, as a spring day swam into focus. Young leaves, bright and green, spread overhead.

“Lunch wasn’t too bad,” Harry said.

Malfoy fixed him with a sceptical look. “You really think so?”

“My friends mean well. They hadn’t expected to see you—”

“You mean you hadn’t expected to see them there. Had you?” Malfoy stopped walking. He hooked his hands into the pockets of his robes. His eyes were light in the sun, but a shadow of doubt passed over them. “You don’t want to be seen with me.” He started walking again.

“No. Wait!” Harry hurried after him. He grabbed Malfoy’s arm. “I wouldn’t have asked you to lunch if I wasn’t interested in– if I didn’t want to be seen with you.”

“It’s not the same.” Malfoy looked down, and swallowed. “This is impossible.”

Harry stepped closer to him, his hand still wrapped around Malfoy’s arm. “I don’t care if it’s impossible. I like you.”

Malfoy looked up, and his face was brittle, open for Harry to read. It took Harry a moment to place the emotion in his eyes, but when he did his breath caught. Fear. Malfoy was scared.

“Weasley was so angry to see me.”

“He takes time to get used to change.” Harry pulled Malfoy closer. “But he trusts me. And… if I say that you’re my friend now, he will give you a chance. You’ll see.”

“Your friend?” Malfoy said. “Is that what we’re doing here?” Harry wanted to see him smile. He wanted to see that worried look disappear.

“Yes.” Harry’s arm wrapped around Malfoy’s back. “Although I think that this is more.” He smiled, and finally, Malfoy broke out in a matching smile.

“Oh yes?”

Harry nodded, and then Malfoy reached forward and they were kissing. Malfoy’s lips had been softer than Harry had imagined. He could feel it now, watching the memory; the warmth that had spread inside him, the desire to kiss and kiss and never stop.

He watched as Malfoy’s hand rose to Harry’s neck, and Harry’s hand pulled Malfoy tighter still.

The memory faded, and Harry found himself sitting on the sofa alone.

He went through the motions of the day – finishing off another report for work, tidying, making a meal to share with Draco when he woke up – in a bit of a daze. Harry felt unsteady, as though he stood in two different moments in time. Part of him relived the kiss and those other first moments together. Another part of him though, remembered the silences and the distance between them. Once, yes, they had been close and in love and full of the wonder of each other. But now?

When Draco came down the stairs, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Harry was torn between wanting to reach out and reenact that first kiss, and wanting to find some task to keep him busy. But this time Harry decided that even if he wasn’t exactly the same person who’d pulled Draco in for a kiss after a pretty disastrous accidental lunch with Ron and Hermione, he didn’t have to be the person who hid away either.

“Hi.” Harry smiled. “You’re up.”

“Yes,” said Draco. He yawned, and stretched. “Just about.” He came to sit next to Harry at the kitchen table. “It’s good to see you.”

Harry threaded his fingers through Draco’s. “It’s good to see you, too.”

Draco squeezed Harry’s hand, but didn’t say anything. Draco’s eyes were still tired, and Harry’s heart lurched at the memory, still so clear, of the bright eyes and shy smile he’d worn in their youth.

"I've been watching the memories you gave me."

"Good." Draco turned to Harry. "I was worried that you wouldn't."

Blood rushed to Harry's cheeks. "Well, it took me a few days to get into the swing of things."

"Of course it did. Let me guess: you spoke to Hermione?"

"That predictable, am I?" Harry said, a little sheepishly.

"Yes." Draco moved Harry's hair away from this face. "Sometimes you need a bit of encouragement."

"We need to talk," Harry said. "Don't we?"

Draco nodded. "It's good to hear you say that."

"Are we going to be okay?"

"I hope so. I– I'm still pretty tired though." Draco's stomach rumbled. "And hungry."

"I made soup."

“Thank you,” Draco said, and smiled. A shy, gentle smile. Harry smiled back. He felt again the loosening inside of him, as he had that morning. Their faces were reflected back at them from the darkened windows as they settled into a gentle chatter, hospital gossip and a story about Ron getting stuck inside a giant pumpkin. Harry couldn't remember the last time he'd let himself relax like this with Draco, and it felt good.

 

**8.**

“Harry, I can’t come. I’m on nights again.” Malfoy’s shoulders dropped.

Harry remembered this, but even if he hadn’t, his thoughts were transparent on his face. Such disappointment. And then a hint of hope.

“How about breakfast? When you get off?”

Malfoy smiled, slow and full. “I could do that. If you don’t mind the fact that I can barely talk at the end of a night shift.”

“Why don’t I come to you?” The words rushed out. “I’ll bring breakfast with me.”

Harry snorted. That had always been the plan: breakfast with Malfoy. Although not with a night shift beforehand. Harry had been driven to distraction by Malfoy in those early days, yet it had taken them a while to move beyond increasingly heated kisses. Not for want of trying, for either of them. It was more the demands of Healer and Auror training.

Such a short glimpse, but Harry could see why Draco had chosen it. There hadn’t been a golden period when they’d had enough time for each other. They’d always been busy.

After the soup the day before, Draco had begun to yawn and despite sleeping most of the day away, he’d gone back to bed. Harry had followed, but he’d fallen into a dead sleep rather than Draco’s arms. It felt… too soon somehow. When Harry hadn’t seen Draco all week, he found it always took a few days to become accustomed to his presence in the house again. They would sit together like polite strangers until everything felt familiar again.

Sunday passed in a gentle series of traditions: papers and food and a snooze on the sofa in the afternoon. When Harry woke up, Draco’s head was resting on his shoulder, a warm pressure. Harry let himself breathe in Draco’s rhythms. This was what he needed to relearn: the way that Draco’s chest rose and fell, the pulsing of the blood in his veins, the gentle flow of magic around him. Harry’s fingers found the short hair at the back of Draco’s neck, the quivering pulse at his neck, the soft line of his lips.

Draco woke into a smile as Harry’s fingers drew the shape of his mouth. He didn’t say anything; he brought his own hand to Harry’s free arm, seeking the space between sleeve and skin. His eyes were clear now, so much brighter than they had been the night before. Warm breath touched Harry’s skin before Draco’s mouth - hot, dry, wet – landed on his own in a kiss.

Harry couldn’t stop looking at Draco’s eyes. Such a pale grey, they always seemed to hold sunlight. Harry had stared at them for days, before. He kissed the soft signs of the years passing at their edges, and then made his way down to Draco’s neck. So warm, and a trace of sandalwood. So _Draco_.

Draco’s shirt was totally undone, and Harry’s was on the floor when Ron’s Patronus appeared beside them.

“Harry, you’re needed in Hampshire.” Ron’s voice came from the mouth of the silver terrier staring blindly at them. Harry groaned, and with a heavy sigh yanked his hand out from the back of Draco’s trousers.

When he got back from a freezing cold field in the middle of nowhere, it was dark and Draco was asleep. Harry was knackered, but before he went to bed he watched the memory of the breakfast-promise.

His mind wandered back to what they'd been up to before Ron had interrupted earlier. They hadn’t got too far, but it was still more than they’d done in ages. Rather than the usual quick fumble late at night, kissing and stripping each other on the sofa had been fun, and hot, and Harry wanted to do it again. Instead of feeling guilty or resigned, Harry felt hopeful. Soon, he would take all of Draco’s clothes off, and do terrible things to him. He couldn’t wait.

 

**9.**

When Harry got into work on Monday, Ron was waiting for him with a thundery expression on his face.

“You did a good job.” Harry decided it would be best to ignore Ron’s bad mood.

“I’ve had better weekends.”

“You have concrete evidence to present to the Wizengamot. Considering that Thompson’s house was Unplottable, I’d say that was an achievement. Robards will be pleased.”

Ron narrowed his eyes. “Why are you so cheerful?”

“No reason.” Harry grinned. “I woke up this morning and the sun was shining.”

He continued to annoy Ron with pleasant remarks and positivity. Really, living with Draco had been far too good a training in how to wind someone up. Especially by being nice.

“I’ll forgive you the smugness as you’ve bought me pie.” Ron sprayed a bit of pie crust onto the table, and he wiped his mouth before continuing. “You win; buying my lunch was a masterstroke. Now tell me why you’re in such a good mood.”

“I want to knock off early tonight. See Draco. He’s off nights.”

“After I missed seeing ‘Mione and the kids this weekend?” Ron shook his head. “Fine, I’ll cover for you, but you owe me one. And no more stakeouts for a while!”

When Harry got home, Draco was not back yet. He went straight to the Pensieve. The thought of seeing the next memory, more than anything, had been what had kept Harry going through the day. He liked it, this feeling of being connected to Draco. Like a secret shared between only the two of them.

The memory filled the Pensieve, and Harry found himself watching the two of them on Draco’s sofa in his old flat. A squashed croissant lay on the floor, while Harry and Draco stretched out: naked, sweaty, come still cooling on skin. One of Harry’s breakfast visits then, after Draco’s night shift.

Heat coiled through Harry at the sight. He wanted this. At the same time, he wished that Draco had chosen the memory from the half hour before… Harry had never watched a Pensieve of the two of them together, and he had no idea why not. Maybe because for so long they’d been too busy doing it to stop and watch anything, but now…

Draco – was this Draco, or Malfoy? Harry didn’t know, but naked like this, he was most like Harry’s _Draco_ – opened his eyes, and smiled at the Harry beside him. A slow, tired smile, but it turned into a gentle kiss, and then Harry cleaned them with his wand and Draco nestled into his side. Harry Summoned a blanket, and Draco murmured something into his chest. Harry couldn’t quite make the words out, but he didn’t need to. He watched Draco fall asleep, safe and warm in Harry’s arms.

Harry was pulled out of the memory by the sound of the Floo flaring. Draco stepped out, still in his Healer robes and with stubble on his chin. Harry rose to meet him, but said nothing. Instead, he pulled off Draco’s robes, and slowly backed him into the wall. Draco’s nimble fingers found the buttons of Harry’s jeans. _Yes_. Harry kissed Draco, hard. He didn’t want gentleness. This wasn’t a memory. He wanted to feel Draco; he wanted this to be real.

Draco’s shirt was off next. Harry turned and locked the Floo before casting his wand aside. “No interruptions, this time.”

In response, Draco ripped Harry’s shirt open, sending buttons flying. Harry could hear the thumping of his pulse, and Draco’s rough breaths. He pulled Draco closer, and dragged his fingers along the skin of Draco’s back. He knew, without looking, the pink and white marks his fingers would raise, and how they would fade again to nothing.

With rough hands and urgent strokes, they brought each other off. Low groans punctuated the quiet of the room, and an ache grew in Harry’s chest before he came. He needed this so badly, and yet it wasn’t quite enough. He kissed Draco again, and this time the ache eased a little. He had found some form of release, but it wasn’t all that that he wanted. He wanted… his mind flashed back to the memory, to the way Draco had looked at him before closing his eyes. He wanted to be closer to Draco, in every way.

Draco touched Harry’s glasses, still resting on his nose. He straightened them, then let his finger trail down to Harry’s lips.

The ache remained, a soft throb, while they showered and ate and talked. And yet, as Harry’s hand strayed to Draco’s leg, and Draco’s fingers found his, Harry realised that he did feel closer to Draco. He felt as though he were finding his way back, from some far-off place.

 

**10.**

Harry’s day didn’t go well. At first, he thought that it would – the sky was the softest grey when he left for work, with blue peeking through and everything edged in gold. Harry had been whistling when he arrived at the Ministry, but then everyone was in a bad mood and it soon became apparent that this was due to Robards having not got approval for his pet project.

“I don’t care how long it takes,” Robards shouted, “I want you to have a review of every case this year, and how the use of Muggle methods could have helped, on my desk by next Friday!”

“But Christmas—”

“Isn’t until the week after.” Robards started rifling through the papers on his desk with such force, several of them fluttered to the floor. Harry knew better than to attempt to pick any of them up or acknowledge that they’d fallen.

“Very well, sir.” Harry got up and left. He started swearing as soon as the door shut behind him, and didn’t stop until he’d got back to his cubicle.

“What I don’t understand,” said Ron, “is how Muggle methods can help that much when you’re investigating Dark Magic. They don’t exactly have a test for it.”

“I know.” Harry sighed. “But there are some good practices… It’s just the timing, really. There are so many files to go through, and doing it in a week at any time of the year would be hard, but knowing Christmas is coming…”

“It’s a bit of a final deadline, isn’t it?”

“And what’s he going to do with it, when no one’s at work, anyway?” Harry scowled, and went back to listing all the methods he knew Robards had been hoping to get written into the Auror code of practice. He rubbed the back of his neck in frustration; so many of these were good ideas, but he hated to be forced into rushing a report like this. At least he’d already helped write the initial proposal so plenty of it was familiar. Although on the other hand, that made this feel even more irritated as he’d already argued everything there was to argue on this front.

The archive room made Harry sneeze – he hated to say it, but he missed the days when house-elves kept it dust free. Although he’d never mention that to Hermione, of course. By the time he got home he was tired, dusty, and hungry as he’d missed lunch because Robards had waylaid him in the lift and insisted on a full update of his morning’s work.

Harry walked home, hoping that it might be enough to clear his head. He could feel that things were slowly changing with Draco, but it was all so precarious and he was still so scared that it could all go wrong. Deep down, Harry knew that it was Draco he wanted, but it all felt so difficult.

When Harry opened the door, the first thing he noticed was the quiet strains of an orchestra playing. He smiled; Draco had wound up the gramophone. Draco seemed happy enough to make concessions to Muggle technology as long as it was antiquated.

The kitchen was lit by candlelight, and a meal was laid out on the table. Draco handed Harry a glass of wine as soon as Harry walked in.

“Why, I might think that you’re trying to seduce me, Mr Malfoy.”

Draco shuddered. “You’re doing the opposite, calling me that.”

“Still makes you think of your father?”

“And now I’m thinking of my mother flirting with him.”

Harry put his wine down and wound his arm around Draco. “Sorry, I forget how sensitive you are about them.”

“Considering that you can’t stand to be in a room with him, I’d say that I’m not the only one.”

“Merlin, how did we end up talking about Lucius? That man will never ruin anything for me, ever again.”

Draco gave Harry a peck on the cheek, then moved away. “I thought I’d treat you tonight. I cooked your favourite, we’ve got plenty of wine, and I’ll even let you tell me about your day.”

Harry raised his eyebrows. Draco often yawned through Harry’s work talk, and sometimes would start a new conversation halfway through one of Harry’s sentences.

“I didn’t say I’d _listen_.”

Harry laughed and sat down, content to watch Draco move around the kitchen, draining pasta and making a quick vinaigrette for a salad. The wine was warming and rich, and Harry breathed deeply into his glass. As they ate, Draco did a fairly good job of pretending to listen, nodding at the right moments and tutting at Robards and his shouting. He then told Harry some tale of the incomprehensible politics at St Mungo’s. He’d worked there for years, but Harry was still at a loss to explain how it all worked.

Harry smiled over the table at Draco, who was twirling spaghetti around his fork. The candlelight, soft music, and the wine were all working their magic on Harry. Gradually, his shoulders began to relax, and the buzzing that had filled his head all day eased a bit. He noticed the way that Draco’s eyelashes caught the light, and the way he talked quickly when on a subject of interest. He watched Draco’s fingers tear bread with efficiency and precision: a surgeon’s hands.

The wine made Harry feel slower than normal, as though the world were running at a gentler pace around him. Draco’s words stopped carrying meaning, as instead Harry focused on the shape his mouth made. His wicked, beautiful mouth. The flicker of arousal, not quite quenched the night before, rose within him. Draco stopped talking.

“When you look at me like that…”

Harry pushed his plate to one side. “You’re the one who gave me food and wine and _candles_.”

“Washing up first. Then your advent… we’ll see how you feel after that.”

Harry opened his mouth to protest, but thought better of it. There was no point trying to avoid the washing up – Draco wouldn’t be able to relax until it was done. For someone who hadn’t washed a dish until he was an adult, he was frustratingly fussy about cleanliness.

For the first time, Draco sat nearby while Harry poured the memory into the Pensieve. The edges of the room seemed blurred and Harry felt happy. It was the wine, he was sure; and yet he was in a good enough mood not to want to ask Draco to leave and it was ridiculous to feel he needed privacy to see something as personal as Draco’s own memories.

Harry dipped his head down into the Pensieve. He blinked into the darkness. Slowly he made out the outlines of figures. Night time, and two people in bed. The rattling and rustling of a breeze in the trees outside. Another sound began to fill the room. At first, Harry thought that there was cat trapped somewhere, but then recognised it for what it was: crying. And whimpering, and fear and loss. The hairs on the back of his neck rose as he realised that the rough voice crying out was his own.

His eyes adjusted to the darkness enough to be able to make out his silhouette, his face screwed up as he thrashed in bed. And sitting up beside him, Draco; the diffused light from outside glancing off the pale lines of his body. Draco ran his hands through Harry’s hair, and murmured soft words and shushes. Slowly, Harry grew quieter until his face had untwisted and his chest was rising and falling in a gentle rhythm. Draco remained sitting up, and drew his knees up, hugging himself. He turned his head to look out of the window into the night, although Harry didn’t know what he saw; his eyes looked blank. Draco looked back down, and ran his hair through Harry’s hair again, pausing to trace the lightning scar.

“My Harry,” he whispered.

The memory faded, and Harry closed his eyes to the brightness of the room. Draco was sitting opposite him, a worried look on his face.

“I didn’t know if it was—” Draco looked down. “I don’t know if I could watch myself have one of my nightmares.”

“Come here.” Harry held out his arms.

They sat by the fire, watching the flames and finishing the bottle of wine, without the need for words. Harry closed his eyes as Draco’s fingers ran over his scalp. When he turned to kiss Draco, the taste of wine sour on both their lips, the kiss was gentle and full of comfort, not passion.

Harry fell asleep that night holding tight to Draco. Just as tightly, Draco held onto him.

 

 **11**.

The sky was still dark when Harry woke up, feeling more hot and squashed than normal. Draco’s leg was hooked over his, and a hand lay resting on Harry’s chest. Harry closed his eyes, willing himself back to sleep, but his dreams were still vivid and it didn’t take long to give up trying to sleep. For years, Harry's only dreams had been nightmares: the dead, gazing at him mournfully, or talking to him softly as he walked to his own death; the hideous thing that the final Horcrux had become, writhing on the floor of the station when he died; green curses flying through the air.

But now he had lived enough of a life since the war that he could also have anxiety dreams about completing reports on time, or getting lost in the archives room. Some dreams made him happy – the one he had woken from had been of the Great Hall at Hogwarts, ready for Christmas. Lights twinkled, mulled wine flowed, and the tables were heaped with mince pies and turkey and shiny red Christmas crackers.

Perhaps it was time to get a tree, and decorate the house. Mid-December was acceptable, wasn’t it? Not too late, not too early. Harry pondered this for a bit, before deciding that he might as well get up.

The Pensieve. Why not look at a memory now? Harry disentangled himself from Draco, then wrapped a blanket around himself and made his way down the creaky old stairs.

As usual, falling into the memory was unnerving. Warm golden light filled the bedroom: a setting sun, casting long shadows across the room. The bright white lines of Draco’s body were clear, as were the fuzzier dark lines of Harry’s. They sat on the bed, fingers tracing each other’s bodies. Not the first time they had been naked together, but the first time they’d taken their time like this. Really looked at each other.

Harry’s fingers ran down the fine silvery lines of Draco’s chest, only just visible in the long rays from the window. Draco’s thumb swiped over Harry’s round scar, the one left by the Horcrux pendant. And then, slowly, it circled the skin on Harry’s chest. It grazed nipples and ran through hair, finally rising to Harry’s mouth and lips. Harry kissed Draco’s thumb, and then each of his fingers, and then down along his arm, across his chest, down to his navel and then, finally, to the straining pink-hard cock below.

The blanket fell from Harry’s shoulders as he watched, his breath held almost painfully, as he kissed Draco’s cock, and licked it, and lapped at his balls before taking it into his mouth. Oh! He breathed again, in rhythm with the head bobbing in front of him. But then Draco made sound, a sighing groan that drew Harry’s attention.

Colour heated Draco’s face and neck, and his lips were parted while his eyes were closed. He swayed, almost, as the subtle movements of his jaw and face betrayed exactly how much he was enjoying himself. This was better than any dream, and Harry’s hand found its way into his pyjamas for a series of long, slow tugs. But then Harry stopped; he wasn’t going to wank off to a memory. Not when Draco was asleep upstairs. Warm and soft in bed.

Instead, Harry watched, keeping as still as he could – almost as though he didn’t want to disturb the two men in front of him – while Draco’s voice grew louder until he groaned through his climax. The Harry of the memory sat up, his lips swollen and shiny, and a look of sly satisfaction on his face.

The memory faded, and Harry shivered in the dark and the cold of the living room. He bottled the memory up as quickly as he could, then took the stairs two at time to get back to Draco.

Draco squirmed when Harry climbed back into bed.

“Cold feet. Gerroff.”

Harry kissed Draco on the cheek. “I watched the next memory.”

“You what?” Draco half-opened his eyes. “Why are you waking to tell me—” Understanding lit his face. “Oh, you did, did you?”

“Yes.” Harry slid a hand, slightly warmer now, over the hard edge of Draco’s hip. “I did.”

“Well in that case,” Draco said, his hot fingers finding Harry’s aching cock surprisingly quickly, “I think I know why you’re here.”

Harry grinned. "You dirty fucker, sticking that memory in."

"But you liked it?"

"Oh yes, I did." Harry kissed Draco. He no longer felt cold, not when rubbing and grabbing and grasping with a sleep-heated and most wonderful man.

Harry walked into work half an hour late, and Robards shouted at him, but he didn’t care. He smiled all day.

 

**12, 13, 14.**

The next day, Harry kissed a sleepy Draco goodbye before leaving for work. A dark sky and a sleepy city greeted him when he opened the front door, the yellow light from street lights Harry’s only companion on the way in. By the time he arrived at the Ministry, Harry was awake enough to join the terse, hurried meeting in Robards’ office, without yawning once.

“I thought you wanted me to write up this report on Muggle methods, sir,” Harry said.

“I do – and don’t think you’re off the hook,” Robards said, obviously still in a huff with the powers that be, “but this situation needs a swift resolution.”

Harry ran a hand through his hair and took a deep breath. Robards really should have provided some coffee. Every few years some witch or wizard would fancy themselves the next Voldemort and Robards liked Harry to turn up and wave his wand around. “Would you like me to disarm them, sir?”

Someone in the room coughed. As if hiding a laugh, perhaps.

“I would like you to do your job as a Senior Auror, and lead a team to bring in these Dark Wizards!”

“But Wilson’s doing a great job, I don’t see why you need—”

“She’s been awake for three days in a row. As soon as this meeting’s over, she’s going home.”

Wilson gave a weary salute from her side of the table.

Harry’s resolve crumbled. He had thought she looked a little peaky, but he was so used to Draco and his weariness when he was on nights… Crumbs. Three days without sleep? “Of course, sir. I understand.”

Draco sent Harry a short but understanding reply to his owl the first night that Harry realised he would need a little longer to wrap this case up. By the time Wilson reappeared on Friday afternoon, Harry hadn’t been home, but he wasn’t willing to miss the moment that the Felixstowe brothers were apprehended. He was also covered in thick mud and bloody freezing, but at least it stopped the cut in his arm from bleeding too much.

On Saturday morning, when they led the brothers into a holding cell, Harry forced himself to stay upright a little longer. Between the two of them, he and Wilson completed an approximation of the necessary paperwork. He did, however, have time to praise her Auror skills. As she puffed with pride, he decided that he did, actually, like his job. And then he climbed into the Floo, slurring, “number twelve, Grimmauld Place,” before he fell through the fireplace at home. He was too old for this, for short naps up trees and wet socks and clammy clothes.

He woke up to Draco gently prodding him.

“Wake up, sleeping beauty.”

“Go ‘way. I want to sleep.”

“You’re on the sitting room floor, and the rug is disgustingly muddy. I’ve run you a bath and healed your arm properly – and why didn’t someone sort that out for you already?”

  
“I left before they could. Wanted to come home.”

“Well, you’re here now. You and half a field. You also smell.”

“I know.” Harry grinned sleepily. “Pig farm.”

Draco’s arms wavered for a moment, but they continued to drag Harry up and pull him towards the bathroom.

“Don’t worry, I can burn these clothes.”

Harry wasn’t sure whose clothes Draco meant. Probably both of theirs. He rolled his eyes. “Always so precious.”

“At least I don’t smell of pig shit.”

“You do now.”

Harry didn’t really remember much more of the evening, except that Draco washed all the mud from his body. The gentle touch of Draco’s fingers as he washed Harry’s hair was enough to send him off to sleep. Somehow Draco had got Harry into bed, because after a deep and dreamless sleep, Harry woke to the gloomy light of morning.

Draco was sitting by the window, reading.

Harry sat up a little, gingerly testing out his stiff and tired body. “Why don’t we have normal jobs?”

“Because we’d get bored. And if you must insist on saving the world all the time, the least I can do is a few night shifts at St Mungo’s.”

“I don’t do that world-saving thing anymore. It’s you who rushes around saving lives.”

“Yes, yes; I’m wonderful.” Draco put down his book. “So wonderful that I’m going to make you breakfast now. And then the choice of activities today is all yours.”

“I could stay in bed all day,” said Harry, lying back and spreading his arms out. “Bed’s nice.”

Draco arched a brow. “I could live with that. Provided—”

“Oh, I’ll need entertaining, of course.”

Harry patted the space beside him, but Draco mouthed the word “breakfast”, and disappeared down the stairs. When he returned a short while later with a plate of scrambled eggs and toast, Harry was disappointed to see that the Pensieve and box of memories bobbing along behind him too.

“That’s not quite what I had in mind as entertainment. Although that last one was rather marvellous.”

“Humour me.”

“This is beginning to feel like homework. I haven’t even had my breakfast yet!”

“Well then, eat up, silly.”

“Fine.” Harry dug into his eggs, and they were perfect.

Draco came to sit beside Harry, the bed dipping as he did so. “I don’t mean to be pushy—”

Harry harrumphed.

“Okay; a little bit pushy. But you know how I like to plan…”

“I know.”

“It’s more than that, though. I know – or rather, I think – that things are a little more relaxed between us.”

With a smile, Harry stroked the back of Draco’s hand. “Yes.”

“But it’s not enough. It’s been… it got really bad, Harry.”

The eggs no longer tasted so good. Harry swallowed them down as best he could, then set his plate aside. “But we can work it out.” The words sounded hollow and hopeful and, well, a touch desperate to Harry’s ears. Which they were, of course.

Draco nodded, and relief flooded Harry, twisting his stomach along the way. He thought he might be sick. Which was ridiculous, as everything was okay. Wasn’t it? “I…” The words stumbled on Harry’s tongue. He wanted to say so much, but he had no idea how.

“It’s going to take more than sex and eggs in the morning, though. I– There is still so much unsaid, between us. This little… project of mine was my way of telling you some of it. I’d really appreciate it if you could carry on looking through them.”

This time Harry didn’t grumble. He climbed out of bed and sat down beside the Pensieve.

“Careful with those.” Draco stopped in the doorway, the tray in his hands. Harry rolled the glass phial in his hands. “They’re all precious to me.”

Harry nodded, but didn’t pull the stopper out until Draco had left the room.

The first memory was of the kitchen in Draco’s old flat. He could just about see the river out of one window, although most of the views consisted of brick walls. Nothing quite matched, and the doors either shut so tightly they needed a good tug to open, or they swung open and had to be stuck shut with sticking charms. When Harry had first seen it, he had been both charmed and a little horrified that Draco could live in such a crummy place. It had only been when Harry had first stayed the night that Draco got as far as cooking for him. Judging by the thick pall of smoke swirling below the ceiling, this first cooked breakfast was exactly what Harry was seeing.

Draco was standing above the bashed old stove, a spatula in hand. He poked at the pan as the bacon rashers turned steadily darker in colour. Harry half expected to see them burst into flames. He remembered trying to eat them, more charred crunch than bacon. But the look on Draco’s face had kept him going.

Harry’s younger self walked into the kitchen, wand in hand. And naked. Was that how he’d looked? Harry sucked his stomach in. But he also smiled… he knew why Draco had included this one. Although Draco could cook well now, he couldn’t at the start. He’d made an effort to learn; Harry had forgotten how far Draco had come.

Harry watched the little scene again. He kept an eye on Draco, and saw the emotions flickering across his face: fear, shame… hope. At the time, had he seen how much of a risk Draco was taking? When he thought back to the day, he remembered most the kissing and the groping in the kitchen, along with trying to eat Draco’s cooking. He’d been filled with a fierce desire to push Draco up against the table; he hadn’t noticed much else than the way the lines of Draco’s body, or the shape of his lips as they smiled.

The next memory was of Draco eating a meal that Harry had cooked. Harry focused on Draco’s expression rather than on the surroundings. He saw… surprise, and pleasure, and the lingering, speculative look Draco had given him. His eyes lingered on the long finger that came to stroke his hand on the table, and his toes flexed at the memory of a leg pressed close to his own.

Harry closed his eyes and relived some of those memories of the early days before looking into the Pensieve again. He’d grown to love Draco’s flat, and when they decided to find a place together a few years down the line, they’d come back to the narrow streets by the river. Harry was still very fond of slow breakfasts and lying naked with daylight playing over their bodies. He sighed: they’d always had demands on their time, but they had less to spare now that their responsibilities at work had grown. He brought his knees up to his chin, and rested his head while he stared into the empty Pensieve. They weren’t getting any younger, and Harry knew that Kingsley was quietly training him to take Robards’ place one day.

Pansy had shared a flat with Millicent back then. Millicent slept on a sofa bed in the living room, and Pansy had the huge bedroom overlooking the garden. Harry had been for cheap meals with expensive wine, and after the first few frosty visits he had grown fond of Draco’s oldest and most selfish friend.

Draco bumped his head on the steeply sloping ceiling of the kitchen, and scowled before sitting at the small table pushed up against the wall. An over-flowing ashtray sat in the middle of the table, and Draco slid it a little further towards the other side while Pansy made him a cup of tea.

“So what brings you here in the non-wine hours? I thought that you were immensely busy learning how to be good.”

The table jarred as Pansy plonked the tea on the table and sat down. One of the fag ends rolled off the pile, but they both ignored it.

“Do I need a reason to visit my dearest friend?”

“Knock it off.” Pansy lit a cigarette, her hands working automatically as she scrutinised Draco. “Something’s different,” she said after blowing out her first cloud of smoke. Harry recognised the small twitch of Draco’s nose. He was probably considering casting a Bubble Head Charm.

“I– I’ve met someone.”

“Oh?”

“He’s… I like him.”

“And…?” Pansy took another from her cigarette. She looked away as though bored, but Harry could see the way she’d perked up. She was interested. And so was he: what would Draco say about him?

“I can’t keep away from him—”

“If he’s so wonderful, why would you want to?”

“It’s…” Draco rubbed the side of his face. “It’s Harry Potter.”

Pansy made an undignified noise as her tea went down the wrong way. “Sorry; did you just say ‘Potter’?”

“Yes.”

“You’re shagging Potter?”

Draco looked pained, but he answered anyway. “Yes, I am actually.”

“Oh.”

“Is that all you have to say?”

“Well, how does this work?”

“I don’t know,” Draco said. “But it does.” A dreamy look crossed Draco’s face. “He makes me feel alive. He’s… well, I see the appeal now.”  
  
“I bet you do. I’ve heard he’s got a huge co—”

“Pansy! I’m not going to sit here and tell you all about Harry’s cock. Although,” he added with a smirk, “I’ve got nothing to complain about. But I’m not with him for his cock. He’s funny, and he can cook, and I _like_ him.”

“Oh fuck,” she said, leaning forward. She ran her hand, cigarette dangling, down the side of Draco’s face. “It’s more than shagging, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Draco smiled, tentatively, and Harry could see it all: the hope, the new love, the excitement of those early days. He felt the tingle of it too, even after all this time. “I haven’t been this happy in years.”

Pansy sat back. “Harry fucking Potter.” She shook her head. “I guess I’m going to have to get used to the idea, aren’t I?” And then she chuckled. “Draco Malfoy fucking Harry Potter.”

The memory faded in another cloud of Pansy’s smoke.

Harry found Draco in the kitchen, looking out into the garden. The winds had completely stripped the trees now, and despite the rain and swaying branches the world seemed still and quiet.

“I watched three memories. I’m not quite caught up yet.”

“Why did you stop?” Draco looked worried, his fingers thing and pale as he hugged himself. Harry came to sit beside him.

“To do this.” He unwrapped Draco’s fingers, and slid a hand along Draco’s jaw. Draco’s hands unclenched, and his head turned toward Harry. “You _liked_ me.”

“Pansy’s kitchen?”

Harry nodded, then leant in and kissed Draco. He tasted warm and dry and Harry remembered dreaming of Draco whilst on stake outs, and thinking about this taste and this feeling for hours on end. He still felt a tingle inside, although he couldn’t tell whether it was from the memories, or from the kissing. Harry decided that it didn’t really matter what caused it, only that he enjoyed kissing Draco in the kitchen while the wind blew outside.

They read the papers and enjoyed the chance to sit, sprawled half over each other, on the sofa together. Draco surprised Harry by telling him that he didn’t need to watch any more memories – it would probably make more sense to watch the next two together, anyway. Intrigued, Harry actually wanted to watch them straight away, but Draco stretched and wriggled his toes, so instead Harry gave him a foot massage. As it spread to… other parts of Draco’s body, Harry paused and raised an eyebrow.

“Pansy thought I had a massive cock?”

Draco groaned and pulled Harry to him. “We are not going to talk about Pansy now. Your cock, on the other hand, is an acceptable topic of conversation.”

Harry decided that he could accept these terms, and returned to the matter in hand.

 

**15, 16.**

“We don't have to go in,” Harry said, his hand resting on the heavy wooden door.

Draco squared his shoulders. “We do.” He glanced over at Harry. “I want to. I... I can't be part of your life if we can't see your friends.”

As Harry's eyes adjusted to the relative darkness of the interior of the Leaky Cauldron, he made out the familiar yet startlingly young-looking shapes of his friends. None of them had thought themselves especially carefree after the war, and yet Harry could see the lack of worries hanging on their shoulders.

Without work deadlines or endless sleepless nights with babies, a sparkle lurked in Ron's eyes, and Hermione chatted brightly, light-hearted and free. Luna, though… Harry couldn’t tell if she’d got less free or more so with age. Time had brought a comfort to her, and that was missing as she laughed and spun in Seamus’s arms. The laughter and the chatter stopped as they all caught sight of Harry and Draco.

Harry watched his younger self slip an arm around Draco's middle, oh so casually signalling their togetherness. It hadn't been about ownership or showing off though: Harry had been trying to steady Draco, who had been trembling like a Flutterby bush.

“Malfoy,” Ron said, his pint glass halfway to his mouth. Hermione elbowed him. “I mean, Draco.”

“Harry tells us that you two are shagging now,” Luna said. “And there's no use trying to kick me, Hermione. You can't reach me from there.”

Draco's face grew paler than normal, while Harry's blushed red.

Harry could see the panic cross Draco’s face. “Draco’s going to buy you all a drink,” Harry said. “And then we’re going to get a few things sorted.”

He couldn’t believe Draco’d faced his friends like this. Poor Draco. Harry’s introduction to Draco’s friends had been far gentler: a quiet morning coffee with a chain-smoking Pansy, and a gentle, if stilted, lunch at Malfoy Manor.

Harry had an inkling what the next memory would be. With a sigh, he poured it out. As expected, the warmth of the Burrow enveloped him. He tried to see Molly through Draco’s eyes. She talked and fussed and hugged, and he could see Draco shrink back. Thankfully she didn’t ask about anyone’s cock or mention shagging, but Harry could see the thought in the little glances she exchanged with Arthur, and the mid-conversation silences and changes of subject matter.

Harry’s chest squeezed uncomfortably as he saw the lengths his friends and family had gone to, for his sake, in their attempts to accept Draco. And he saw how much each awkward conversation and strained apology had cost Draco.

Did Draco resent him for it? Was this why he’d shown Harry these memories? Harry didn’t know.

At lunch the next day, Harry snuck off to find Pansy. He smiled as she sipped some hideous green smoothie, which he was fairly certain contained some kind of health grass. She certainly didn't smoke anymore; now she was the first to hiss at anyone wafting smoke too close to her.

“What do you want, Potty?”

She always had a charming name ready for him. “I don’t suppose Draco’s told you about his little project?”

“The memory thing? Yes.” Concern flitted across her face. “You are watching them, aren’t you, like he wants you to?”

“Of course I am.”

“Only…” She sighed. “He’s fragile at the moment.”

“His hours have been terrib—“

“I’m not talking about his hours, and you know it.”

Harry looked away from her. Pansy was always so fierce. She’d long since stopped apologising for her past actions; she was always moving forward. He was curious, though, of what she might be able to tell him about Draco. Whether the Draco _then_ or the Draco _now_ , he didn’t know.

“He showed me a memory, of when he told you about us.”

“Ah yes.” Pansy sat back in her chair and sipped at her drink. “I remember. He was so hopelessly smitten with you. And he wouldn’t even tell me any of the gory details! I knew then that I’d lost him.”

“You didn’t lose him.”

“I did.” She gave a wry smile. “He’s all yours, you know. He has been, for years.”

 

**17.**

When Harry came home that evening to another freshly cooked meal – not a hint of burned bacon in sight – he couldn’t quite shake the feeling that nothing quite fit. Everything seemed… unsettled. All these memories were bringing up questions and thoughts that Harry didn’t quite know what to do with.

“I was thinking, I don’t have anything else to do tomorrow. I could get us a tree.”

Harry looked up from his notes for Robards. The bastard wasn’t going to give him any extra time and there was so much information to collate.

“But we normally go together.”

“I think that I can choose a tree without your help.”

“That’s not the point, and you know it.”

“We’ve normally got one by now, but you slept all of Saturday. I’m off tomorrow, so I’ll get us one then.”

“What, and decorate it without me?”

“Harry, what are you, five? You can survive one year without decorating the tree yourself. And I might do a good job. You never know.”

“I didn’t get to decorate a tree when I was five. You know that. In fact, you’ve been there almost every year that I have had a tree of my own. Just because you grew up in that huge mansion with a six-foot tree every year—”

“I know you had a shitty childhood! But that was then and this is now. Oh, honestly.” Draco ran his hand through his hair. “And I never got to decorate a tree as a child, either. The house-elves did it. I’m not going through all of this again. It’s growing old.” He stood, knocking some of Harry’s papers in the process.

“Draco, don’t walk off now.”

“Do me a favour and watch today’s memory.”

Harry Summoned the papers on the floor. He almost rose to follow Draco, but he didn’t want to fight, or carry on fighting, or have a lengthy heart-to-heart about how messed up both of their childhoods were.

He wrote a few more sentences on his parchment, barely paying any attention to the words. Ink splattered and the nib of his quill broke, and Harry swore. Stupid Draco. He stared at the mess of his work, and pushed it away, suspecting that any attempt to fix it would only make it worse. Instead, he looked over at the Pensieve.

The memory was thin and wispy as it poured out, and yet it seemed to take longer than the others. Harry knew that was probably not true, but he was pissed off with Draco.

They were shouting at each other. It didn’t take Harry long to work out what they were arguing about.

“I don’t want to go for lunch with your father! That man is odious.”

“But he’s my father,” said Draco. “And it’s his birthday. I can’t simply ignore him.”

“Why not?”

“It would hurt my mother’s feelings, for one.”

“You’re so fucking…” Harry broke off in exasperation. He huffed out some air. “Why do you have to be right on this one?”

Draco sighed. “And why do you have to be right, too? My father is odious.”

“But…”

“But my mother isn’t.”

“I know.” Harry shook his head. “Fine, I’ll go, but don’t expect me to talk to him, or be nice.”

“You could be the wittiest and most well-mannered man alive; I still think my father would dislike you.”

“Well, I am shagging his one and only son with my huge cock.”

“I should never have left you alone with Pansy.”

Harry moved closer to Draco. “How are we ever going to manage? We’re so different. There’s so much history between us.”

“It’ll be easy,” Draco said.

“You call this easy?”

Draco mouthed the words “lots of shagging” and Harry laughed. The memory faded away. Harry shook his head. Lots of shagging had helped, but maybe they should have talked more, too.

Harry found Draco sitting in bed, reading a book.

“So, the house-elves decorated your trees?”

“With hundreds of candles they spent ages lighting every day. I wasn’t allowed anywhere near it.”

“Sorry to get so upset about the tree. Do I… do I hog the decorations every year?”

Draco patted the bed beside him, and Harry came to sit with him. “Pretty much. But I don’t mind; your face lights up so prettily.”

“Prettily?”

“Yes.”

“You can get the tree and decorate it if you want.”

“I’ll get it, but wait for you to decorate it.”

“Deal.”

Harry leant his head against Draco’s shoulder. Even without the shagging, he was beginning to think that maybe Draco was right. Maybe they could be okay.

 

**18, 19, 20.**

The top of the tree brushed the ceiling, and it tapered neatly from its base up. Harry hated to admit it, but Draco had picked the perfect tree.

“It’ll do.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “I went to three places and looked at hundreds of trees. You would have bought the first one you saw.”

“I would not. Although I probably would have got it from the first place I went to.”

“And that’s where you are an amateur.”

Once the tree was gleaming with gold and white and red, Harry settled down to watch the next memory. He watched as they moved into their first place together: a large flat down by the river. With bare brick walls and high ceilings, the flat had felt like a fresh start. Their meagre belongings had barely filled a corner of it. And so had they – even at Christmas it still felt half empty. In the memory he watched though, it was still all new hope and pressing each other up against sleek white kitchen cabinets for celebratory sex.

The next day, Draco was working again and Harry got home first. He cooked, and while he waited for Draco to get home, he watched the next memory. They walked through Grimmauld Place together, and for the first time he could see the same words on both their lips: home. Draco’s face was stuck in a permanent smile as his hands traced over wooden carvings and brass door knobs: you could take the boy out of the pure-blood mansion, but you couldn’t take the mansion out of the boy. Somehow, Grimmauld place had been the perfect marriage between the parts of their past they wanted to hold onto: Draco’s traditions, and Harry’s brief moment of family and hope with Sirius.

When Draco got home they walked through the house, adding garlands of ivy to the stairs as they went.

Harry had to work late on Friday, but when he got home the house was still dark. His hand ached from writing, but report into Muggle techniques was finished. Harry had left it, neatly bound, on Robards’ desk. The man himself was nowhere to be seen, and Harry suspected that he wouldn’t see him again until well after Christmas. He didn’t care though; at least the blasted thing was done.

The draw of the Pensieve was strong. Which memory would Draco have chosen? Harry settled down in front of the fire, and pulled out the next phial.

Laughter filled the room, and Teddy bounded over the back of the sofa.

“Careful!” Draco leapt up. “This isn’t a playground.”

“I know,” said Teddy. “But Uncle Harry said I could.”

  
“Oh, did he now?” Draco folded his arms. “And what else did Uncle Harry say?”

Teddy counted them off on his fingers as his hair flickered between green and orange. “I can eat ice cream, and stay up late, and tomorrow he’s going to take me flying!”

Harry grinned. He and Teddy had perfected the art of pissing Draco off with this routine. It didn’t work quite so well now that Teddy was a teenager. Or rather, he had found a new routine all on his own to annoy the both of them.

When the memory finished, Harry stared into the fire for a while. He missed Teddy, but he’d be around over Christmas, and the house would be full of chatter and the heavy fall of feet running up and down the stairs again. Sometimes, he wondered what it would have been like to have a family of his own. He had always imagined himself with a brood, but it had never happened.

“What are you doing, sitting in the dark?”

Harry looked up. “I lit the fire.”

“I wanted to talk to you about all of this,” Draco nodded at the box of phials, “but I’m too tired tonight.”

“Takeaway?”

“Excellent thinking.”

As Harry rose to fetch a menu, Draco stopped him. “I do think we need to talk more. There’s still so much—”

“I know,” Harry said. He wanted to talk about children and home and what it meant, to be here in this house with Draco. The realisation shocked him: he’d been avoiding sensitive subjects for so long. “I… I think I can, now.”

Had he been scared? Of what? Losing Draco, or breaking him somehow. But now Harry could see that they needed this. And that perhaps Draco wasn’t something he could break, anyway.

 

**21.**

Saturday was spent finishing the last of the Christmas shopping. Draco was working, but Harry enjoyed moving through the crowds at his own pace. The sky was clear above him, and Harry felt able to take on anything. He saved the Pensieve memory for his reward for finishing the shopping.

Harry smiled when he saw the memory that Draco had selected: they were both sitting on the floor of the sitting room, on a blanket spread with food. Draco had planned a picnic by the river but the heavy rain battering the windows had forced this change in venue.

Ripe red strawberries sat alongside delicate tartlets and a hefty pie; a lobster next to salt-edged crackers and soft cheeses. Looking at the spread, Harry saw how sensual Draco’s food choices were: these were foods to be savoured, to be licked from fingers and kissed from mouths. He cringed then, when he saw himself swigging back his champagne, and stuffing a huge slice of pie into his mouth.

Draco didn’t seem to mind. He looked… happy. Harry loved the way that Draco’s happiness lit him from within. His smile was shy but warm, and it was all for Harry. He noticed, too, the way their hands kept returning to each other: a brush on a leg, a touch of fingers, and the odd ruffle through hair. They were so obviously _connected_ to each other. Maybe this was what his friends had seen? Perhaps this was why they had finally grown to accept Harry and Draco as a couple.

“Harry,” Draco said.

“Mm?” Harry’s made an effort to finish his mouthful of pie.

“We are happy here, aren’t we?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“You don’t mind that you ended up back here? No dreams to travel the world and try other places out?”

“Not really. And junior Aurors don’t get that much time off, anyway.”

“That’s not what I meant.” He picked up a strawberry, carefully removing the hull before taking a neat bite off the end. “Do you see… yourself… living here forever?”

Harry heard now that Draco has really been asking about the both of them, but the Harry in the memory shrugged. “I don’t know,” he had replied. “You never really know where life will lead you, do you?”

“No, I suppose not.” Draco put the rest of the strawberry aside and sighed. Watching, Harry wanted to shake the oblivious fool scoffing pie on the floor. How hadn’t he seen what Draco was really asking? He watched the memory again, hoping for some sign that he’d understood, but there was none. And then an idea began to form, and he watched it one more time. This time though, he took notes.

“What’s up with you then?” Draco asked when he got home from St Mungo’s that evening. “You’re very jumpy.”

“Oh, nothing. I’m excited about Christmas, that’s all.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “I don’t care what you say, I suspect that you really are about five when it comes to Christmas.”

“Maybe,” said Harry with a grin.

 

**22.**

Draco stretched out in the kitchen, his pencil hovering above the crossword puzzle in the back of the Muggle paper they’d bought. Harry loved the little furrow of concentration between his eyebrows, and he watched Draco scratch away until Draco noticed him in the doorway. “Any idea what a ‘five-legged—”

“No point asking me, I can never understand those clues,” Harry said. “Anyway, I want to show you something.”

“Finished your little mystery task? You haven’t redecorated the tree, have you? I knew you weren’t happy with my decorating skills.”

“No!” Harry grinned. “If I wanted to do that, I’d wait until you were asleep.”

Harry’s knees had ached when he’d gone to bed the night before, from all the Floo calls he’d made that afternoon. But every bit of effort was worth it when Draco’s jaw dropped as he stepped into the sitting room. Along with the merry fire burning in the hearth and the Christmas tree twinkling in the corner, a red checked cloth was spread out in front of the sofa. Food spilled out from an open hamper.

“You made the picnic.” Draco turned to Harry.

“It’s exactly the same. I, er, would say that I remembered all the details perfectly, but I had your memory to help me.”

“But why?”

“Why did you choose that memory?” Harry countered. “I didn’t appreciate what you’d done.”

“I chose it because it was romantic.”

“Sit down and I’ll show you romantic.”

Draco raised an eyebrow, but sat down neatly.

This time, Harry took the time to savour the food. Small bites; tiny tastes. He offered Draco morsels with his fingers, his teeth and his tongue. He had moved onto trying to undo stiff shirt buttons when Draco shook his head and pulled away.

Had Harry gone too far? A glance down showed an unmistakable bulge of interest from Draco.

“Wait. I think that we should watch the next memory first.”

“Now? Bloody hell Draco, do we really have to?”

“Yes.”

“It’s not going to be fight, is it? Or another guilt trip—”

“You’ll like it, I promise.”

They settled the Pensieve between them on the floor. Draco’s hand slid under Harry’s t-shirt, and he ran it along Harry’s back. Desire flickered through Harry, and he leaned closer to Draco.

“The memory first,” Draco said, but his fingers continued to move across Harry’s skin. He pulled Harry toward him, so that his breath tickled Harry’s ear as he whispered, “It’ll be worth it.” Harry shivered, and poured the memory in.

The golden light of a summer’s sunset filled their bedroom. Harry and Draco were both naked on the bed, and the sight made Harry’s breath catch.

Harry was on his back, while Draco moved with thrusts that changed the shape of his behind, creating dips and rises.

“I love your arse,” Harry murmured.

Draco’s fingers curled around Harry’s side. “And I love yours. Especially when I’m all bound up in that heat, and moving,” he nodded at the two men on bed, “like that.”

The only sounds in the room after that were Harry’s rather shaky breaths as he watched, and the gentle thwack of skin on skin, along with the quiet grunts that escaped the Harry and Draco on the bed. Draco’s hair caught the light, like the golden stubble of a field. Harry was absolutely transfixed by the sight.

His hand reached to move his painfully squeezed erection, but Draco pulled his arm away. “Wait,” he whispered. “Just watch.”

Harry’s world narrowed down to the throbbing in his trousers, the hand on his back, and every movement in front of him. He saw the way that Draco touched him, the tenderness with which he brushed Harry’s hair away from his eyes. He watched as Harry reached up to grab Draco for a messy, hungry kiss. He groaned himself as they moved on the bed so that Draco could wrap his long fingers around Harry’s red, hard cock. When Harry came, and then Draco, Harry was near to coming himself. Draco’s hand had stopped moving on his back. He glanced over and saw parted lips and widened eyes, and cheeks, hot and flushed. Draco’s head turned, and he met Harry’s gaze.

Neither noticed the memory fade as they were both too busy tearing – actually ripping in the case of Harry’s trousers – the clothes off each other. Harry inhaled sharply as cool air finally washed over his aching cock, and he pulled Draco down the floor. They kissed, hard and sharp.

“Fuck me,” Draco said, and Harry could barely see as he nodded and brought a hand to Draco’s arse.

“So fucking lovely, your arse.” He squeezed, his fingers relishing the feel of Draco beneath him. “You’re so…” He kissed Draco.

The fire crackled, casting a glow across their skin. The food was forgotten as Harry tried to show Draco how much he needed him. Loved him. As Draco’s lips moved in senseless words into Harry’s skin, he realised that Draco understood.

 

**23.**

Harry ached most pleasantly when he woke up the next morning. From his stiff knee, to the rawness of his knees and the tenderness of his arse, it was all worth it and Harry rather hoped that Draco had a similar set of reminders of their afternoon and night together.

He left Draco snoring softly and crept downstairs to rustle up some breakfast and coffee though he stopped outside the door to the sitting room. A most hideous mess greeted him and Harry sighed. There was a downside to having energetic sex within range of an array of suggestive foods. A couple of sweeps of his wand put most of the room to rights.

The Pensieve was still on the floor, and Harry carefully placed it back up on the coffee table. He returned the memory from the day before back in the phial, the silver mist indicating nothing of the memory itself. As he placed the phial back in the wooden box, Harry’s hand brushed the next memory. He might as well…

Harry was working. His head was bent over his desk, rolls of parchment and piles of reports around him. Why had Draco chosen this memory? But then Harry saw him. Draco was sitting on the other side of the room, a book in his hands. He wasn’t reading though. He was watching Harry himself, and his face was an open book of warmth and affection. Laced with a little concern, but seeing Harry’s frown and tightly held shoulders, it was understandable. The look on Draco’s face reminded Harry of another memory, the first memory: Draco watching Harry across the Great Hall.

Love. It had always been love. Harry had known this for a long time, of course, but to see it like this… There were no strings. No ifs or buts.

Harry ran back up the stairs, taking them two at a time. He woke Draco, and kissed him gently on the lips.

Draco yawned and stretched. “This better be a reasonable time of day. Did you get up extra early to watch another memory?”

“I thought I might as well watch today’s. But it’s not that early. You’re just a lazy layabout.”

“I’m worn out, that’s all.” A slow smile curved over Draco’s lips, and he closed his eyes. “Although it was worth it.”

“Love,” Harry said. “It’s always been love.”

“Yes, I know,” said Draco.

“No,” said Harry. “I mean… I know that you loved me, right at the beginning. What I mean is… it’s always been love for me, too.”

“Oh.” Draco opened his eyes. “Either get back into bed or make me breakfast.” A crooked little smile lifted the corners of Draco’s mouth, and Harry decided that he would much rather explore the first option. And that mouth.

After a very late breakfast – something else had come up first – Harry and Draco sat down and talked. Really talked.

That night, when Draco went into work to cover someone else’s shift, Harry finished wrapping the last few presents while the wind howled outside. Harry barely noticed it, as he replayed his favourite of the Pensieve memories in his mind.

 

**24.**

The next day, Christmas Eve, Harry woke to Draco beside him. He left Draco sleeping, and went downstairs to with a spring in his step. When Hermione’s face appeared in the sitting room Floo, Harry was rather glad that she hadn’t tried to get through earlier in the week. He couldn’t remember whether he’d actually locked the Floo the day of the picnic.

Blushing slightly, he answered her with a cheery, “Hi.”

“You look pleased with yourself.”

“It’s Christmas, and I don’t need to work for a week. Of course I’m happy.”

Hermione scowled. “Well, I’m glad it’s so relaxing for you.”

Harry laughed. “You’re the one who offered to have it at yours this year. I know all about rushing around to get everything ready.”

“Not with children underfoot.”

“Can I help?”

“Well…” Hermione sighed. “Can you make the bread sauce? I don’t know what I’m doing, and Ron’s not much better.”

“No problem.”

“Thanks. And Harry…”

“Yes?”

“You are looking happy.”

“It’s Draco.” Harry smiled, and glanced up to the ceiling. “He… he makes me happy.”

“The memories worked then?”

Harry nodded. “They worked.”

When Draco woke up, they watched the last memory together. It was only one of their lazy Sundays in the memory: Harry and Draco in the kitchen, cooking and bickering and reading the papers. But it was perfect.

Harry put the last phial back into the box. His fingers brushed over all twenty-four stoppers. “Thank you,” he said. “For giving me all these reasons to remember… to see… us.”

Draco’s eyes were bright as he smiled back at Harry. “I see you.”

“And I see you.”

 

**Christmas Day**

“I should have guessed.” Draco pulled the small bottle clear from the tissue paper.

“It did seem the obvious gift.”

“Can I watch it now?” Draco touched Harry’s wrist, his fingers lingering in a gentle stroke. “It’s not going to… distract us, is it?”

“It’s not that type of memory, you dirty perv. I’m not arriving at Hermione’s looking freshly shagged.”

“Like we haven’t done it before.”

Harry mumbled something about “not on Christmas Day”, but they had turned up on more than one occasion with hair awry and buttons not quite done up straight.

He held Draco’s hand as they dipped their heads over the Pensieve.

“I’ve met someone.” Harry twisted the cushion on his lap. He was sitting on the squashy sofa in Ron and Hermione’s old flat.

“Yes.” Hermione nodded. Harry looked up from the cushion, confusion written all over his face.

“Yes? That’s all you have to say? Where’s the usual barrage of questions?”

Ron cleared his throat. “There’s really not much of a mystery here. You’ve had that stupid grin plastered all over your face, and you turned up for training with those marks on your ne—”

“There’s more.” Harry returned to his cushion mauling. “I’m not sure how to tell you this.”

Ron and Hermione exchanged glances.

“We were there, remember?” Hermione said. Ron nodded.

“Where?”

“At school.”

“You were obsessed, mate. And when you started asking all those questions about Malfoy recently…”

“It really wasn’t too hard to put two and two together. And it was a bit of shock at first but… the more I think about it, the more I think I understand. Besides,” Hermione added, “from what I’ve heard, he’s really applied himself to the Healer programme. I… it’s not going to be easy, but if you like him… I’m willing to give him a chance.” She folded her hands in her lap.

“You know!” Harry looked between his friends. “You know. But… I don’t understand.”

“You should invite him to the pub one night.” _The pub_. The confusion had turned to disbelief. Harry stared at her, as if waiting for the disappointed look or the concerned frown. “Oh, don’t look so worried, we won’t _eat_ him.”

“Bet you’d like to—”

“Ronald!”

“Er, sorry. Forgot where I was for a second there.”

“You want to go out for drinks with Draco Malfoy?” Harry had a wild look about him.

“Harry, you’ve smiled more in the past two weeks than you have for about a year.”

“I– I really like him.” Harry blushed. “I don’t remember thinking about him like this before, but now I can’t stop. He’s smart, and funny, and I’d like…” He looked up. “For the first time in a long time, I think… I think that this could work. Barmy as that sounds. I can imagine us,” Harry’s blush deepened, “you know. Growing old together.”

Hermione looked a little pained, but reached out to grasp his fingers.

Ron gave Hermione a gentle smile and a resigned shrug before saying, “We’ll try to get to know him. For you.”

“Thanks.” Harry shook himself and stood up. “I’ll make some more tea.” He left his friends whispering on the sofa, but he didn’t care, because he knew that after this he was going to see Draco, and that made everything all right.

The memory fell away, and Harry and Draco were left sitting together, their hands still joined between them.

“Draco, let’s grow old together.”

Draco didn’t say anything for a moment. But then he nodded and smiled. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

 

_The end._


End file.
